“Did you know everybody is named after somebody else?” Elizabeth twisted the knotted fabric around her rough fingers. The scratching of pen stopped momentarily, but no voice filled the empty air.
“For example,” she continued, “I am named after Elizabeth I, one of England's greatest queens.”
“Ms. Clyde--”
“And you, Mr. Prosecutor,” her finger raised to tap her temple, “would be the famous Charles I -- dreadful king of England. Did you know --” The pounding of the gavel cut her off.
“The court would like to remind the defendant to--”
“Keep my answers short and on topic, yes.” She blinked at the stern face. “Your Honour.”
“You may repeat the question, Mr. Prosecutor,” the Judge muttered. Lizzie’s eyes shifted back to the smug, scrawny man, his skin a harsh contrast to her own.
“Ms. Clyde, why were you on Clayton St. on April 13?”
“I was protesting for civil rights.” She saw it immediately. The hardened gazes, crooked frowns, disgusted looks -- but none of it affected her.
“I assume you know why you are here today?” It seemed the Lord was testing her.
“Well, I sure hope I’m not charged for speaking my mind  -- because that would be a direct violation of the First Amendment.” The Prosecutor’s eyes narrowed, and she met his glare.
“While you were -- protesting,” he spit out the word, “we received some noise complaints.” Lizzie’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling, the new additions twisting ancient architecture into modern rubble. “It seems people were uncomfortable with your public protests.”
“What level of ‘uncomfortable’?”
“Ms. Clyde!” came the sharp snap of the judge. Lizzie rolled her eyes, sinking back into
the hard wooden chair. The thick grey smoke of the stenographer’s pipe wafted under her nose.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Wagner, but according to the American Civil Liberties Union I have the right to peacefully protest in public places.” The lawyer dropped his papers onto the table, folding his arms over his embarrassingly expensive suit. Lizzie felt the fire burning in her chest. His voice filled the air, and was swallowed into Lizzie’s ears like the irritable cry of a baby.
“What’s your reason for protesting anyway? Aren’t you only half--”
“My reasons expand beyond what your small mind can comprehend, Mr. Wagner. Just because I am interacial does not mean my hardships are any less!” It was so tempting to pull herself off the chair, but even while shouting, she could see the court officer’s hand moving to his waist. It wasn’t in her best interest to get hit by a club again.
“Hardships? What? Didn’t get enough attention as a --”
“When I was two years old my father was arrested for violating your corrupt state’s anti-miscegenation laws! From the moment my mother and father fell in love,” she stood up, as did the guard, “everywhere she went she was taunted, mocked, ridiculed, though never touched, thank God! No, because to you people a bruise on the cheek is much more damaging than the destruction of dignity!” She was suddenly very aware of the faint scarring on her own cheek.
“Ms. Clyde.” The judge’s voice was quieter than it had been all day. It surprised her enough to listen to him. “Return to your seat.” She did so, wanting to keep his favour.
“Mr. Prosecutor, it would seem to me you need to re-familiarize yourself with how the
law works.” The outraged prosecutor jumped to his feet, knocking the wooden chair backwards
into the stand. “If you had truly desired to convict Ms. Clyde, you would have pursued a more logical position than,” the judge peered down at his notes, “‘disturbing the peace’. Civil protests have been occurring for a very long time now, Mr. Wagner, and I would appreciate it if you would leave the inconsequential from my bench.”
“Your Honour, she has been a pest for --”
“By the City of Montgomery and the State of Alabama, I choose to dismiss the case built - wrongfully I might add - against Elizabeth Clyde.” He looked her directly in the eyes. The compassion pooling in them was endless. Then the pounding of the gavel resonated in her ears. With that sound she could hear the world already changing.
“Wrongfully?” the prosecutor gaped, “Your Honour --”
“Mr. Wagner I have gone through a list of your previous civil cases. It seems you are building this one from a personal vendetta against Ms. Clyde. I propose you drop your ridiculous schemes, as Ms. Clyde has proven herself much too clever for a man of your stature.” Lizzie stood proudly, thriving in the shock of the prosecutor.
“Would I be wrong in assuming, your Honour, that you will be voting in favour of the Civil Rights Act?” The Judge stared down, compassion morphing into glints of irritation.
“Not at all, Mr. Wagner.” The judge collected his things at a relaxed pace. “If you have any final words, Ms. Clyde, I would say them now.” Lizzie was already stepping forward, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them -- not that she would.
“Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States of America, once said; ‘We
hold these truths to be self-evident that’...how does it end again?” she asked, her voice
sickly sweet, pointedly looking past the prosecutor. He seemed infuriated at her dismissal of him.
“‘That all men are created’--” His tongue caught in his throat. The last word, though
never uttered, resonated throughout the courtroom. Lizzie smirked, no one had ever fallen for
that before. She turned, and began walking for the court doors.
“That’s right.” The doors swung open for her.
Equal.